


a paper house

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Series: sins of our fathers [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the best days of John's life rapidly spirals into a hellish nightmare. </p><p>Takes place one year after Adventures in Adolescence. John is 17, Sherlock is 16. The year is 1986.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: non-explicit sex between minors, homophobia, mental illness (real and faked) and mentions of child abuse. 
> 
> Remember how I said this would be less plotty? I was wrong. So warnings for falling plot as well. 
> 
> Thank you so much to all those that kudo'd and commented on adventures in adolescence! You all rock.
> 
> ETA: Now beta'd by the marvelous Essie. All remaining mistakes are mine.

The rose was poised on the edge of John’s pillow, greeting him when he opened his eyes to the shrill call of his alarm. He slapped at the clock then picked up the delicate bloom. Someone with very careful fingers had breathed life into a single sheet of blood red paper. When he tipped it over, a thick key fell onto the bed. It had been carefully painted the same dark red shade as the flower.

He looked around his room, but there was no other evidence of invasion. Not that he was expecting one. Doubtless the break-in had been eased by the intruder’s own key given to him by John months ago. John desperately wanted to pursue the mystery of the key immediately, but it was a school day and he was too near the end to start skipping out now.

“Harry!” He knocked on her door as he went to the shower, whistling as he went.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” She asked bitterly over her bowl of cereal.

“Just am.” He topped up her orange juice.

“Well stop. It’s annoying.”

Even her perpetual morning grumpiness couldn’t dim his mood. Sherlock had given him something for no apparent reason or alternative motive. The same boy who ignored birthdays and holidays and loathed all things that held a whiff of sentimentality had given John the best gift he had: a puzzle.

By lunch, he thought he’d figured it out. The paint had a certain gloss that could only have been nail polish. The exact shade could mean only one person. He puzzled over the why and still had no conclusion when school finished for the day. The usual route to the Academy wouldn’t do. If John was anxious to begin this then Sherlock was probably near exploding. He would want John to start immediately.

The Holmes townhouse had never become a familiar stomping ground to John. No matter how many times he met Sherlock there or lingered in his rooms, there was an alien quality to the place. Perhaps Sherlock felt the same way because he rarely asked John over. Certainly neither of them was over anxious to tangle with Sherlock’s father. Today as he pressed the doorbell, John sent up a silent plea that Mr. Holmes wouldn’t answer.

“Who is it?" The maid's voice called through the door.

“Hey Jeanette. It’s John. Can I come in a minute?”

“I’m afraid Sherlock isn’t here.”

“That’s alright. He asked me to fetch something for him.”

“Course he did.” The door opened, an exasperated Jeanette ushering him in. “I swear that boy thinks you’re his slave.”

“I don’t mind.” He headed up to Sherlock’s room to collaborate his lie, waiting for Jeanette to return to the thankless job of fighting off legions of dust.

A few minutes later, he slipped back down the stairs and into Mrs. Holmes’ sickroom. The lady herself no longer waited in attendance here. Death courted her at a hospice now. John had coaxed Sherlock into visiting her once, but after seeing her comatose body Sherlock had violently declared that he refused to pretend a breathing corpse cared about his presence one way or another. They’d left the hospice and walked aimlessly for hours in silence. Not one tear was shed, but John didn’t doubt for one moment that Sherlock grieved for her.

Whatever game Sherlock had started to play today, he had wanted to include her somehow. The sickroom contained more of her than anywhere else in the house. As soon as he walked in, he spotted the second delicate rose resting on the hospital bed just where an elegant wasted hand had once been tenderly manicured.

He picked it up and flipped it upside down. Nothing came out. Frowning, he looked around the bed, but there were no further clues. Hating to do it, John carefully unfolded the bloom. There was a quick dash of numbers scrawled across the back. He traced a finger over them, trying to make sense of it. They weren’t dates or a phone number. Coordinates. Racing back up the stairs, he grabbed one of Sherlock’s many heavily annotated London maps. Carefully he traced out the longitude and latitude.

“Got you.” John grinned. “No idea why though, you mad bastard.”

The tube was packed, but John barely noticed as he attempted to fold the rose back into it’s original shape. Like so many things he could see the outlines of how Sherlock had accomplished it, but he couldn’t replicate the results. He decided to make Sherlock demonstrate one day just so he could watch those careful fingers bent on such a frivolous, beautiful task.

When he emerged into the weak winter light, he scanned the street. No Sherlock, but a storefront caught his eye. Amid an artistic display of bread and rolls, a red rose bloomed. He ducked into the shop. It was nearly empty, except for an enormous man behind the counter who was glaring murderously at the till, stabbing a finger at the buttons like it might bite.

“Um, excuse me.” John weaved past shelves of olive oil and crackers. “This may sound a bit weird, but is that flower in the window for me?”

“Ah! You must be Sherlock’s friend!” The man went from homicidal to cheerful in a snap. “He said you’d be around. Thought you might take longer to work it out though.”

“Did he?” John rolled his eyes. “So the rose is for me?”

“Oh, no. He said that was a real one, so it wouldn’t do. No idea what that means, but he left this with me.” Fishing under the counter, the baker produced a third paper rose. It was a creamy off white. “And he said you might want this.”

John took the rose in one hand and a still warm roll in the other. It smelled delicious. He’d missed his usual after-school snack and now it was getting on dinner.

“Thanks, really.” He bit into it.

“No need. Sherlock’s a good kid. Caught my old clerk stealing me blind, can you imagine?” The man tsked. “Now I’ve got to figure this bloody machine out myself. Still better than getting ripped off by some two bit punk.”

John escaped the store after listening for five excruciating minutes while the baker complained about the machine. Stuffing the last bit of roll into his mouth, he turned his attention to the third rose. Aside from it’s color, the rose also boasted more petals. Why the differences?

He looked up and down the street, checking other shop windows though it was doubtful that Sherlock would repeat himself. His wanderings took him to the opposite corner and he glanced up at the street sign. The other pedestrians edged away from the laughing boy on the corner.

Sherlock claimed that history lessons were a study in inherited ignorance, scoffing at John’s interest in them. So it had to have been an act of great devotion for him to recall the tedious detail enough to give John a white rose for York Street. With renewed confidence, John counted the petals guessing they made an address. Number 15 was an aging apartment building, the front steps a little crumbled. A series of buzzers hung next to the the door with most of the names blurred, scratched out and written over.

“Right.” He could ring each of them until he happened upon the right one, but that wasn’t playing the game.

The flower had already given up its information, so the clue had to be on the buzzers. None of the labels looked any fresher than the others. He checked the screws on the metal plate for scratches or signs of tampering then checked each button. Brow furrowing, he went back over each name. To his great surprise, the very last label for ‘8D’ just as faded and yellow as the others had a name written faintly above an older one that was very familiar indeed: ‘Watson’.

“What in bloody hell?” He pressed it. An automatic lock clicked open, letting him into the foyer. It smelled faintly of curry and incense. The elevator dinged softly and slid open with a coughing rattle.

The ride up to the eighth floor was an unsteady one and he got out rather glad to have survived the experience. There were only four doors, each clearly marked. Loud music heaved out of 8A as John walked past it and he was fairly sure he smelled weed wafting out of 8C. The door to 8D was locked. He dug into his pocket for the red lacquered key. It needed a little convincing to fit in the lock. The polish had made it a hair too wide, but it was certainly the right key. Triumphant, John opened the door.

The flat was hardly bigger than a postage stamp, and it was made smaller still by the sheer amount of stuff crammed into it. Chemistry equipment littered the galley kitchen, running riot into piles of books. These were stacked across the floor up to a desk that looked far too expensive for the rundown flat. It's surface was shockingly clean, boasting only a sleek typewriter. The single closet had been packed in with clothes, but only on the left side, leaving the right perfectly empty. A bed dominated the remaining living space, dressed in white sheets and a plush looking red duvet. Seated on the bed like a haughty emperor surveying his chaotic kingdom was Sherlock.

“Hello, disaster.” John said with a smile. “What’s all this then?”

“I had thought it was apparent.” Sherlock beckoned him and John took the last few steps separating them. “Can’t you guess?”

“It looks like you’ve gotten a flat. How? Why?” He got onto the bed, taking the sharp cheekbones in his hands so he could kiss Sherlock as he should always be kissed: long and hard. It lasted for several blissful and messy minutes before John backed off enough to let Sherlock answer.

“ _Our_ flat.” Sherlock announced. “Or did you imagine the typewriter was for me?”

“I had wondered.” John looked around the tiny domain. “Our flat...I have to ask again. How? Why?”

“Surely you’ve noticed how close it is to King’s College. This way we won’t have to stay in some dreadful institutional housing with separate beds.”

“We?” John asked faintly. “Sherlock...”

“I’ve gotten in.” Another rose appeared in Sherlock’s hands. John could make out a few typed words and the stamp of familiar letterhead. “I told my Father that if I wasn’t allowed to go to college this year, I’d start an international incident.”

“You could go anywhere.” He protested. “Cambridge, Oxford...anywhere.”

“Pretentious and overrated.” Sherlock bit off sharply. “No one place could teach me anything now. I only need somewhere that will leave me alone enough to let me experiment.”

“I-we’re not even starting for months. Isn’t this...how are you paying for it? How are we supposed to keep paying for it?”

“My trust fund always allowed for a monthly allowance when I started university.” Sherlock set the fourth rose in John’s hand. “I convinced the family solicitor that being accepted was as good as.”

“Course you did.” John laughed, overwhelmed and breathless. “I can’t move in until the end of term.”

“Neither will I then.”

“Looks like you already have.”

“Only a few odds and ends.” Sherlock dismissed the mess with a wave of his hand.

“Mum is going to notice there’s only one bed.”

“Why? She won’t live here.”

“Yes, but she will visit. So will Harry.”

“Oh. They will?” Sherlock frowned. “Yes. They will. Of course. Does it matter?”

“I’ll have to tell her.” With a sigh, John rested his head against the wall. “I’ve no idea how she’ll take it.”

“I hope Father goes into cardiac arrest.” A wicked grin crossed Sherlock’s face. “Oh, you should be there when I tell him. Looking as disreputable as possible.”

“That’d be brilliant.” John agreed vaguely, still turning the situation over. He had months to figure it out he supposed. And why had Sherlock bothered with finding the place so early? He had to know that John couldn’t up and leave. Something about today then, something special. “Sherlock. Is it our anniversary?”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Why else would I do this?”

“I hadn’t the faintest.” John admitted. “That makes me a terrible boyfriend, I know, but... How was I to guess? You hate all that kind of thing. You wouldn’t even wish me a happy birthday.”

“Birthdays are nonsense.” Mouth tight, Sherlock launched himself off the bed to look out the one dirty window. “You have no say over when you’re born, it’s not momentous or imbued with any more power than any other day. It only marks the passage of time.”

“But not anniversaries?”

“They aren’t arbitrary.” He snapped. “You made me a promise. I made you a promise. We gave the day importance.”

“That’s...the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, actually.” John said, a bit breathless. “I’m sorry that I didn’t think to get you anything.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock muttered, but he allowed John got up to tug him into an embrace.

“It does.” John told him firmly. “Thank you. For...everything. I loved today. I love this terrible flat. It’s marvelous.”

“It’s only marginally terrible.” Sherlock corrected, the tension bleeding out of his spine. “I’m not romantic. Don’t expect it of me.”

“You gave up Oxford and got me a typewriter and a flat. And roses. Sorry, too late to take it back.” John leaned up to kiss the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “Your cynic’s credibility is forever ruined, Cupid. How am I ever going to compete? I want to go do something ridiculous now like buy you a ream of stationary and build a paper house.”

“I would much prefer if you took me to bed.” Sherlock growled and every hair on John’s body stood at attention.

“Oh, fuck. The bed. Sherlock. How am I going to get through school if I have you and a bed and privacy on hand all the time?” He groaned, already working on stripping off Sherlock’s shirt. “I’ll flunk out.”

“Idiot.” Sherlock pushed John backwards onto the mattress. “As if I’d let you.”

They had learned each other thoroughly in the past year, but never before had they had the luxury of so much guaranteed privacy. It made for a heady mixture and they indulged themselves shamelessly. In the aftermath, sweating and exultant, they tangled together on the fresh sheets and John felt near to bursting with joy.

“Let’s tell her tonight.” He decided, kissing a line along the gentle curve of Sherlock’s collarbone. “You gave us somewhere to run off to if she takes it badly.”

“Why tonight?”

“Because I’m happy and I’m sick of lying. I dunno. She’s going to wonder where I was. I was meant to be home for dinner.” The hollow of Sherlock’s throat tasted saltier than the rest of him, John licked into it. “I want to be honest with her.”

It took them another hour to right themselves, sharing the slender shower stall and taking ages to get clean. When they were finally dressed, Sherlock held open John’s jacket. Sliding in his arms, they were briefly pressed together again. Sherlock buried his nose in John’s short hair.

“Promise me.” He demanded.

“I promise.” John vowed and then reluctantly got them both out the door.

It wasn’t until they were walking in the front door and his mother pinned him with an angry glare that the reality of what he was about to do sank in. Desperately glad for Sherlock at his back, John squared his shoulders.

“Hello, Mum.”

“Where were you?” Her voice dripped with disappointment. “I don’t care if you stay out a little bit later, but why didn’t you call? Honestly, it isn’t like you, Johnny. Hello, Sherlock. ”

“Hello, Emma.”

“I lost track of time.” John shifted his weight nervously. “Mum, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s just that...” He sucked in a deep breath of air. “I’m with Sherlock. I have been for some time and I thought you ought to know because we’ve decided to live together next year.”

She stared blankly at him.

“He’s my boyfriend.” John attempted again.

“Johnny...” She exhaled shakily and choked. “You...you’re so young! You can’t possibly...you’re not a homosexual.”

“Dunno. I think probably I am, actually. Or it doesn’t matter because I’m not going out with a girl.” He shrugged tightly.

“Did you talk about this with Dr. Taylor?”

“No. Why would I? It’s none of her business.”

“I can’t...you have to talk to her about this. You can’t just...Johnny. This isn’t you! You’re not a freak.”

“How would you know?” It ripped viciously out of him and he could feel Sherlock jump slightly behind him. Vitriol and bile that he hadn’t known he’d been carrying boiled out of him. “You’re never home! If I didn’t wait up for you, I’d never see you. I have to forge your name all the time on permission slips and test papers. You don’t even know what I like to eat! So maybe I am a freak. Maybe I’ve been one for years and you’ve never stuck around long enough to notice.”

“Johnny...” She had started to cry and John swallowed hard, fighting the urge to comfort her. “I have to provide for us. I can’t just...are you blaming me for you...being this way?”

“I’m not blaming you. There’s nothing to blame. Maybe I’m not who you thought I was, but I’m not...I’m not crazy or anything.” He reached back to grab at Sherlock’s hand, taking solace from the returned grip. “I’m sorry if that hurts you, but it’s got nothing to do with you really.”

“How can you say that?” She started to cry in earnest now, horrid rolling sobs. “I’m your mother.”

“Because it’s true. It’s not your choice.”

“It’s my choice as long as you live under my roof!” She got to her feet, anger swimming up from under the tears. “You’ve been carrying on right under my nose. God only knows what you’ve done to Harry with this...nonsense.”

“I would never do anything to her.” John's eyes narrowed in fury. “She had no idea about me and Sherlock. Even though he spends more time with her than you do!”

She reeled back as if struck, putting a hand on the kitchen table to steady herself.

“Get out.” She sounded immeasurably tired. “I can’t look at you right now.”

“Fine.” He snapped. “I’ll just grab some clothes and go then.”

“Johnny, no!” The door to Harry’s room swung open and she launched herself at him. She wrapped her arms solidly around his waist. “Don’t leave me here.”

“No one’s leaving anyone.” He put a hand on her head, brushing over another impeccable Sherlockian haircut. “Just going to go away for a few days.”

“Don’t leave me alone.” She twisted her hands into his jumper.

John looked at his mother, tears running down her face then back at Sherlock who had remained oddly silent throughout the whole ordeal. His face gave nothing away. John caught his eye then tilted his head down at Harry. After a slight pause, Sherlock shrugged then nodded.

“Right. Pack an overnight bag. You’ll come with us.” He pushed her back towards her room.

“What!” Emma reached for Harry as she ran by. “You’ll do no such thing!”

“Watch me.” He followed after Harry, making sure she put in a school uniform for the next day and pajamas for the night. When she was done, Sherlock appeared, already carrying John’s rucksack.

“John Hamish Watson, if you leave this house with her, so help me God!”

“God is a fallacy, Mrs. Watson.” Sherlock said gravely as John picked Harry up in his arms and carried her out the door. “Help yourself if you can.”

The door slammed with ugly finality behind them. Harry had become too big to carry years ago and normally she’d loudly protest any attempt at it, but tonight she only buried her face into John’s neck. John watched numbly as Sherlock hailed a cab. The ride back to the flat was somber, Harry clinging and refusing to talk. John let his head fall back against the seat, wishing he’d waited after all.

“What if she doesn’t let me back?” He whispered. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“It’s done.” Sherlock looked at him sidelong. “Regrets are useless. In any case, she will allow you back home, sooner or later.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m a genius.” Sherlock smiled thinly.

Despite feeling utterly exhausted, John knew he wouldn’t sleep. With some excavation, he located a kettle in the chaotic cupboards and made tea. Harry curled up on the bed though it was hard to tell if she was actually sleeping. For lack of anywhere else, John leaned on the counter. Sherlock busied himself at the tiny kitchen table fussing over some test-tubes.

“John.” Sherlock said some murky time later.

“Mm?”

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” He listened carefully. There were sirens outside, wailing. “I can’t hear over the noise.”

“The elevator. They’re coming up here.”

“Who?”

“The police!”

The door shook under a pounding fist, punctuating Sherlock's hissed declaration. Bemused, John reached forward to open it before Sherlock could stop him. Two uniformed officers stood on the other side. One looked deeply uncomfortable while the other disturbingly smug. It reminded John painfully of Moran.

“John Watson?” The smug one asked.

“I...yeah. That’s me. Can I help you?”

“Where is Harry Watson?”

“She’s just over there.” He gestured at the bed. “I...what’s this all about?”

“You’ve been accused of kidnapping and you’ve just confirmed that the child in question is with you.” The officer sneered. “We’ll be taking you in.”

“Harry is his sister.” Sherlock cut in. “He took her in full agreement with their mother and only for the night. It’s hardly a kidnapping.”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes?”

“That would depend on why you’re asking.”

“He’s here boys!” The cop said into his radio. “Remember, he’s probably armed!”

“I am most certainly not.” Sherlock protested. “And even if I was, I’m not stupid enough to use it against a police officer.”

“Good to know.” The other officer sighed.“Give us your wrists then, kid.”

Warily, John put his wrists behind his back, the sharp click of handcuffs ringing in his ears. Two burly men in stark white uniforms pushed passed him. They grabbed onto Sherlock who thrashed in their grasp.

“Get off of me!” Like a raging beast, Sherlock kicked and gnashed his teeth. A needle flashed and sunk into the smooth skin of his arm.

“Hey!” John threw himself forward, thwarted by the iron grasp of an officer’s arms around his shoulder. “What are you doing? You can’t just do that!”

“You’re friend here has enough psych labels for a whole ward and he’s involved in a possibly violent crime.” The smug cop tore John from the flat, practically dragging him down the hall. “He’s going straight to a mental care facility.”

“John!” Sherlock called out, then went devastatingly limp as if all the vicious, manic life had drained out of him all at once. Dimly, John heard Harry start screaming as he was pulled down the hall and thrust into the elevator.

Rough hands got him into the back of a car, then disappeared back into the building. Alone in the car, he growled in wordless anger. There were no handles on the doors and his hands were useless, wrists already chafed from trying to escape the cuffs. When they carried Sherlock out of the building on a stretcher, something vital inside John snapped. He reared back to kick at the door with both feet in a determined, mindless beat. The car rocked a little under his assault. A woman in a rumpled suit led Harry out from the building and towards another car. He redoubled his efforts, pulling on a previously unknown reserve of strength. No energy was wasted on screaming or crying, just the determined motion of two feet against protesting metal.

The friendlier officer finally returned, opening the door on the downswing of John’s kick so that he nearly fell out onto the pavement. A strong arm stopped him.

“Calm down, kid, please. Your mother explained what happened when we contacted her. Your friend’s dad had a misunderstanding is all. We’re just going to take you in for some paperwork and then get this cleared up alright?” It was a steady solid voice and despite himself, John listened. “Your sister is going straight home to your mother.”

“Sherlock?” He begged, watching the ambulance pull away. “Please, don’t let them take him.”

“It’s not us, kid. His father signed off on that. It's nothing to do with the crime really. We should have just taken him in with you. Something is definitely wrong. ” The officer frowned. “Look, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

“So why are you?” John settled back onto the seat. There was no other choice now.

“Because you’re fighting like hell to protect your people. I admire that.” The officer said dryly, patting John on the shoulder. It reminded him painfully of his father and he nearly winced away. “I’ll be taking you in and dealing with you from here on out. Sorry about my Sergeant, he’s a bit of a prick.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” John spat out, glancing across the sidewalk to where the smug cop was arguing with a bystander. “Are you allowed to say that?”

“No, but you aren’t going to mention it, right?”

“Right.” It was probably a manipulation tactic, but John was too tired to care. His hatred for all things police could be pushed to one side for the moment. “I’m John Watson. But you already know that.”

“Constable Lestrade.” He had a warm smile, but John had nothing to offer in return. “Think you can make it down to the station without tearing apart my car?”

“Yeah.” John settled back in the seat. “Fine.”

True to his word, Lestrade didn’t let anyone else near John when they did get to the station. The Sergeant went off immediately, and several intermediaries got waved off. There was no cell, only a dismal room with a table and two chairs. Lestrade brought in a glass of water, a pen and some paperwork. He explained about John writing out a statement, that no charges were being pressed and that he’d be free to go as soon as everything was processed. Numbly, John filled out tiny boxes and gave a statement barely a paragraph long. He admitted to nothing, gave no extraneous details. Only said that he’d taken his sister for the night at his new flat to show it to her.

What seemed like hours later, hours spent watching the walls nauseous and angry, Lestrade appeared again and this time John was allowed to follow him through the long corridors towards the exit.

“Have you heard anything about Sherlock?” He asked when they neared the doors that led to freedom. It looked to be pouring outside. Figured.

“He’s out of my purview now.” Lestrade frowned. “It was never really a legal matter to begin with. Someone powerful has the hands on the right strings.”

“His father hates him.” John ran a hand through his hair which was uncomfortably oily. He wanted to sleep for a thousand years and wake up to yesterday morning. “Dunno how he found out what happened. Mum must have.... it doesn’t matter now.”

“Here, take this.” Lestrade pressed a square of paper into John’s hand. “You need any help, you call.”

“Why do you care?” He asked bitterly even as he tucked the business card into his pocket.

“He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?” The kind voice had dropped to a whisper, but gained no edge.

“Yeah. So?” John stared at him defiantly.

“So. I understand.”

“Oh.” John rocked a little on his heels.

“Only I don’t think I’ve ever been as brave as either of you.” Lestrade stared at some point over John’s shoulder, lost for a moment. “I should have been. Now there’s a girl and a ring. You stick to who you are, kid. You’ve got the way of it.”

“Um.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Well.”

“Really though. Call.”

“Thank you.” He slipped out into the rain.

Before John could give a thought to where he might be headed, he spotted a man in a pristine suit standing on the corner under a black umbrella. Behind him, a discreet car waited. Giving into the inevitable, John crossed the sidewalk to stand in the perfect circle of dry pavement.

“Where is he?” John demanded.

“I don’t know.” The admission twisted Mycroft’s face into some parody of shame. “Father won’t tell me, won’t return my calls. I have my people looking.”

“You know, Sherlock always said you had no idea how fucked your father is, but I never believed him. I don’t know what’s worse that he was right and you’re that stupid or that he was wrong and you let this happen.”

“Sherlock is not in possession of all the facts.” Mycroft brushed at some invisible piece of lint on his lapel. “I have taken care that he shouldn’t be. This conversation could become lenghty, I’d prefer to have in the car. Is there somewhere I can take you?”

For a horrid moment, John’s mind went blank. _Hysterics don’t suit you, John._ Sherlock’s voice cut through it. _Set aside your emotions and think._

“Can you take me to my Mum’s and then home?” He asked.

“Home?”

“Our flat.” He jutted out his chin, crossed his arms over his chest and dug in for a fight.

“Of course.” Mycroft opened the car door and let John slide in first.

“So talk then. What doesn’t Sherlock know?”

“Why would I tell you if I never told him?” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow.

“Don’t do this, not now.” John rubbed his temples. “All I want is to get him out of wherever the animal you call ‘Father’ has stuck him.”

“What if I think he belongs there?” He asked almost experimentally, but it hit John like a punch to the stomach.

“He’s no madder than you are!” John snarled. “They’ll....god, Mycroft, they’ll drown that brilliant mad brain in medication and therapy until he really is a lunatic!”

“I am well aware of the gravity of the situation.” The starch had gone out of Mycroft’s voice entirely. “I am the first born after all. Father was never a warm man, but he was always interested. He liked to challenge me with odd games, logic puzzles. They only took on an edge of sadism when it became clear that I was out performing him. Electric shocks, handicapping drugs....the details aren’t important. Rest assured though that I have been fighting the war against Evelyn Holmes for most of my life.”

“I’m sorry.” John breathed out. “Sherlock doesn’t know?”

“No, of course not.” Mycroft slowly rotated the handle of his umbrella. “You know as I do that an elder brother’s responsibilities are heavy indeed.”

“But you left him.” John would never leave Harry, never give her up to a monster to raise.

“Only when he was strong enough to defend himself.” The umbrella spun on, hypnotic and grave. “And never completely. I will do everything in my power to get him out of that place, John, but it may not be enough. Father is his legal guardian and there is too long a paper trail on Sherlock’s mental state to cry foul.”

“I did this.” John realized. “This is my fault. I had to tell Mum and she called your father. If I’d just kept my mouth shut, he wouldn’t have had that last excuse. “

“It was inevitable. You were right, I had ignored how bad it had gotten. I thought the truce would hold.”

“Truce?”

“I promised to help Father in his political goals with the stipulation that he left Sherlock alone.” Mycroft let out a soft puff of air that on anyone else would be a scream. “I thought his desire for power in the world would out-weigh his desire for power over his sons. I gravely miscalculated. That he had the opportunity to discredit you and cover his actions with the scent of legitimacy are only details.”

Outside the car, the world slid by. The first trembling gray light of dawn filled the streets. Twenty-four hours ago, John had awoken to a rose on his pillow. It seemed a lifetime ago.

“Sherlock was wrong.” John said quietly.

“About what?” The umbrella ceased its rotation.

“He said that no one would ever care about you, but that’s bullocks.” John said fiercely. “You loved him enough to keep him safe, to keep him well at the expense of everything else. Makes me care about you a great deal.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft glanced out the window, whatever brief reaction he might have had lost to the ages. “You’ll want to give your sister your number.”

“I don’t have a number.”

“I took the liberty of having a line set up in your flat.” He reached into his vest pocket for a small leather bound notebook and ripped out a page in the back. Handing it over, John made out the faintest of tremors in Mycroft’s hand. “I’ll call when I have something to share.”

“How soon?” He put it into his pocket alongside Lestrade’s card.

“I should know within a day or so. There aren’t that many discreet places and none of them are discreet enough to withstand me for long.” Mycroft gave what passed for a grin. “This is the building, I believe.”

It was. With a heavy breath, John readied himself to launch back into the rain. A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“I think perhaps, you might want this.”

A compact umbrella was thrust into his hand and John popped it open gratefully. The blood red color stilled the thanks before it clamored out of his mouth. He turned a glare on Mycroft who looked blankly back at him. John tried to read something there and found nothing. Was it possible that even Mycroft occasionally delved into sentiment or was he mocking Sherlock and by extension John?

“Sometimes an umbrella is just an umbrella.” Mycroft waved him off. “I don’t have all day, John.”

John climbed the stairs, aware of the painful symmetry of the night before. Sherlock had only packed a simple overnight bag for him, but now he wanted to take everything he could carry. He didn’t intend to return any time soon, perhaps never. Just as she had been twelve hours ago, his mother sat at the kitchen table. A cup of tea cooled in front of her.

“Johnny!” She sprung to her feet as if to embrace him, then hesitated at his thunderous expression. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“How could you?” He wanted that hug. Wanted to crawl into her arms and take comfort. It was a deep cut of betrayal that the last source of parental warmth in his life was closed to him.

“I didn’t know where you’d gone.” She swallowed thickly. “I reacted badly and I wanted...oh Johnny, I’m so sorry. You dropped a bomb on me and I...”

“You called Sherlock’s father.” John said flatly, unable to give quarter. “I told you what a horrid person he was and you called him anyway.”

“I thought you might have gone to their house.” She sighed. “You took Harry and I... I don’t know what I thought. I was too upset to think properly. He seemed so kind on the phone and then the police called me...”

“They took him from me.” He walked past her. “They took him. They drugged him and if it weren’t for his brother, I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for him. So I don’t really care what your excuse is. I’m going to go give Harry my phone number and then I’m going to pack my stuff and leave.”

“Johnny, please, you have to understand-”

“No, Mum. I don’t.” He pushed into Harry’s room, shutting the door behind him. “You awake?”

“Yeah.” She stuck her head out from under the covers, hair stuck up at all sorts of angles. “What was jail like?”

“Really boring.” He kissed her forehead and copied the number from Mycroft’s paper into one of her school notebooks. “I have to go. I can’t take you with me this time, but I promise I’ll come back as soon as I’ve got Sherlock.”

“He’s in real big trouble, isn’t he?”

“I think so.”

She rested her head on his chest and he just held her for awhile. Exhaustion crept in, weighing down his eyelids. Reluctantly, he pulled away.

“Call me if you need me. I can’t promise to pick up right away, but keep trying, ok?”

“I love you.” She confided, quietly. They weren’t a family that said that often. It wasn’t a part of her elaborate bedtime routine or their goodbyes in the morning before school. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure he could recall the last time he'd said it to anyone at all.

“I love you too.” He embraced her one last time then slipped away.

His bedroom looked like a foreign country. He took a duffel bag out from under his bed and stuffed it full of clothing. Then he filled his schoolbag with the stories he’d typed out idly over the last few months and a few stray paperbacks, though he couldn’t imagine concentrating enough to read. That was all there was to take. The fire had claimed most of his old mementos and there weren’t many new ones. He hefted everything up and headed out the door. His mother was nowhere to be seen.

The black car embraced him and in silence, they rode across the city to York Street. Mycroft’s attention was focused on his notebook and it was all John could do to stay awake. When they arrived, he got out without so much as a goodbye. The red umbrella got him to the door without a single new drop of water on his still damp clothes. When he pulled the red lacquered key from his pocket, it did prove to match the umbrella perfectly.

The apartment was still cramped with ridiculous things, made worse by John’s two stuffed bags. Despite his fatigue, he carefully hung and folded his clothes into the spaces Sherlock had left him. When he’d laid his books on one of the existing precarious piles, he finally gave in to his body. He crawled into the bed that had treacherously lost Sherlock’s scent and fell into an uneasy sleep.

He dreamed of the fire for the first time in months and woke sweating. Stumbling into the bathroom, he huddled miserably under a steaming hot shower. He used Sherlock’s shampoo and soap like it might armor him against the world. None of Sherlock’s clothes would fit him, but he could carry Sherlock's scent.

Whoever had come into the flat to install the phone had also left behind basic groceries to fill in the gaps left by Sherlock’s patchwork shopping. John’s cramping stomach forced him to eat though everything tasted like sawdust. His watch proclaimed mid-morning though the ambiguity of the rain soaked sky suggested a darker hour.

The phone rang. He dashed for it, nearly knocking a delicate piece of chemical glassware to the floor.

“Hello?” He gasped into it, holding the apparatus up with one hand.

“I have a location.” Mycroft said crisply. “You will be able to visit in two days time. The first three days, no one may see him. Not even Father. Rules of the facility.”

“Right....right.” Two more days. What could they do to Sherlock in two days? He shivered. “How can I get him out?”

“Please do not attempt any heroics. You will both be hunted down and you really will go to jail, John. Sherlock is still a minor in the eyes of the law and a disturbed one at that.” Someone was talking to Mycroft in the background, a soft feminine voice. “Thank you, Sydney, that won’t be necessary.”

“I’m going to get him out one way or another.” John finally righted the apparatus. “What would you suggest?”

“You know my brother’s methods, John. Apply them. I Though I want to repeat that any attempt to break Sherlock out is doomed to fail. You must concentrate on legal methods. I will do my best to provide any support necessary.” Mycroft declared this as casually as ordering coffee, but John knew fear in a Holmes when he heard it. Mycroft was terrified.

“You’re not alone this time.” John said staunchly. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

He hung up wishing he had a plan to back up his words. He slid into the desk chair and loaded a sheet of clean white paper into the typewriter with no intention of writing. Sherlock had bought him a beautiful machine, and his fingers lingered over the keys for a brief moment, appreciative and mourning.

“No time for that.” He shook himself. “Think.”

The problem was that John knew Sherlock methods, but he didn’t have Sherlock’s mind. He couldn’t come up with advanced psychological warfare tactics or see things that existed only in sideways hints. His expertise came in the quick of the moment. He could fight passably well and be brutal when required. For a few minutes, he contemplated outright killing the bastard.

 _Don’t be an idiot, John. You would be the prime suspect after yesterday’s display._ The crisp clip of Sherlock’s voice centered him and he concentrated on it. _Also, I highly doubt that you are you capable of premeditated murder._

“No...guess not.” It was one thing to kill to protect Sherlock in the moment. Quite another to commit premediated murder. “What’s the alternative then?”

_He is my guardian. That is the fact you need to change._

“How do you change guardianship?” John scrubbed at his face. What they needed was something to prove that Evelyn Holmes was an unfit parent. Something big with a lot of evidence. What Mycroft had confessed to him might be enough, but John doubted it. Not years afterwards with no evidence.

Research would have to suffice as a first step. He went to the library. The microfilm readers stood like sentinels as he poured over the periodical indexes. Gathering the right microfilm from a bored looking clerk, John settled in. Recent articles gave him some idea of just how powerful Evelyn Holmes was on the verge of becoming. He lingered on the edge of every issue, ready with an opinion or pithy quote. Pictures found him with an arm around everyone from the local pundits to the Prime Minister. Disconcerting, but not useful. John dug further back.

First there was Sherlock’s birth announcement, then Mycroft’s. The wording of both were nearly identical as if when Sherlock was born they had only bothered swapping out name and birth weight. Still further back was a longer article on the wedding of society darling Diane Turner to newcomer Evelyn Holmes. There were several paragraphs dedicated to the Turner family, but nearly nothing on the Holmes’ except for the line ‘Evelyn’s parents are sadly deceased’ and another about the hardship of being an orphan.

There was nothing before that. John scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Was it a dead end or was there something there? Someone had to know where Evelyn was before he arrived in London to sweep a wealthy, beautiful woman off her feet. Glad for the change in his pocket, John returned the microfilm and began to diligently copy the ‘Holmes’ listings out of every phonebook the library possessed. It was a depressingly common last name. Still he could start with the city then work his way out. It gave him something to do, in any case. It felt productive.

He decided to call from the flat in case someone else was trying to get a hold of him. Sheaf of paper in hand, he settled on the bed, phone in his lap and began his work. He got over his initial shyness by the twentieth call and had it down to a science by the fortieth.

“Hello, my name is John Watson. I’m looking for the relatives of Evelyn Holmes.”

“Wrong number.”

“Sorry!”

He left off reluctantly at eleven, having been shouted out by several pensioners who were not pleased at being interrupted at bedtime. Robbed of purpose, he crawled back under the blankets and contemplated breaking into the Holmes’ townhouse. He imagined rifling through drawers and finding just the right photo or letter.

 _Go to sleep, John._ Sherlock sniped in his mind. _Father would never be so careless as to leave evidence in the house. Clearly your fatigue is clouding your already diminished thought process._

“How am I supposed to sleep?” He groaned, flopping back on the bed. “You’re out there somewhere hurting and I’m....fuck...I’m so alone without you.”

There was no answer, no magical response. Curling stiffly around a pillow, he closed his eyes against the too empty world and dozed.

Nothing looked better in the morning. The dismal weather continued on as he called and called and called. He talked to countless people, left messages on scores of machines and imagined a network of Holmes battening down their collective hatches as if they knew he were coming. The miracle didn’t happen until after a desultory lunch of tea and toast. The phone rang.

“Hello?” He thrust the handset between his aching ear and chin.

“I’m Amelia Holmes, is this John Watson?” A woman’s voice, aged and paper thin wafted over the phone. “I had a strange call from a distant cousin this morning. Have you been leaving messages looking for information?”

“Yeah, yes!” He gathered himself together. “I did. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to track down information on-”

“Evelyn.” She interrupted in a way so familiar it took John’s breath away. “I’d like very much to know how you came across such a name.”

“I’m doing some genealogy research for a friend.” It wasn’t after all, exactly a lie. “His father said his parents were dead, but my friend would really like to meet any extended family he has.”

“Dead.” She repeated woodenly. “I believe somewhere along the line someone has lied to you. It's Evelyn Holmes who died and that was well over forty years ago.”

“Maybe it’s a different Evelyn. Because the one I know is certainly alive and well.”

“He was my sister’s child. I remember the day he died very vividly, young man.”

“Would I be able to speak with your sister?”

“You’re welcome to visit the grave if you like.” She coughed. “It’s only me these days. My ungrateful son never visits and my daughter died three years ago. Terrible thing, losing a child.”

Sherlock never had gut instincts. He never leaped to conclusions. He saw everything. But John wasn’t Sherlock.

“Your son...he wouldn’t happen to be a very tall man with black hair and light blue eyes, would he?”

“Yes. That does sound like Mycroft.” She said suspiciously. “Why? What’s he done now?”

Ego. Sherlock had said it was Moran’s downfall. The Holmes paterfamilias had enough ego to sink a ship. Enough to name his first born after himself, even if he no longer laid claim to the name.

“Mrs. Holmes, would it be possible for me to come talk to you face to face?” He asked eagerly. “I think that you might be able to solve a real riddle for me.”

“If you know something about my son...”

“It’s nothing urgent. Just a theory. Please?”

“You will bring me flowers. Expensive ones.” She demanded and John choked a little. “All the other women in my knitting circle like to lord their grandchildren over me. It would be nice to have something to shove back in their idiotic faces for once.”

“Yes, m’am.” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Would you mind not telling your son that I’m coming? I’d like to keep this a surprise.”

“I’m old, not stupid.” She coughed again, harsher this time. “Lucky for you, I’m also bored. You’ve got me curious.”

Studiously, John took down her address and promised to arrive the day after next. He returned to calling the rest of the Holmes’, but he felt sure that he had gotten the right person in Amelia. Sooner would have been better for the trip, but he could hardly miss visiting Sherlock. Huddled in a nest of blankets, he passed the night in uneasy dreams and long deathly quiet hours.

Mycroft rang at nine.

“I’ll send a car for you in an hour.” Apparently they were skipping 'hello' now. “You’re listed as a cousin. Your name for today is David Saulson. Be aware of your surroundings. Doubtless Father has already charmed or bribed the nurses into reporting everything back to him.”

“Do you know how he is?”

“The reports I’ve received have suggested he’s in a catatonic state. Prepare yourself.”

It wasn’t until John was uncomfortably ensconced in the back of another anonymous black car, wracking his mind for a distraction that he thought over his new pseudonym. The Watsons had never been religious, but his father had occasionally read them children’s bible stories. He remembered dimly the jealous King Saul, his son Johnathan and the brave David. Mycroft didn’t seem the biblical type, but who knew? Perhaps there was some meaning there. Maybe Sherlock would find it amusing.

The facility wasn’t anything like what he’d expected. It looked more like a private home than a hospital. When he walked into the foyer, a pleasant starched nurse greeted him from behind a walnut desk. She had him sign a register and then escorted him up a beautiful staircase to a small room where all pretense of gentility disappeared. There were bars on the window and a number of people in identical pajamas lingering like sad, swaying sculptures while nurses watched with sharp eyes.

Posed in a wheelchair by the window was a familiar tousle of black curls. It took everything in John to stop himself from running across the room. He took his time, pulling a chair close to the one Sherlock had settled in. Whether it was sedation or something more sinister, Sherlock looked nothing like himself. Loose-limbed and emptied out, his eyes were open, but glazed as they looked listlessly out the window.

“Hello, disaster.” John whispered.

Sherlock didn’t react to him at all. Only the thumb on his left hand moved, twitching arrhythmically. John covered it with his own, the restless grate of Sherlock’s nail on his palm was oddly reassuring. In a hushed tone, John started to tell Sherlock about the past two days. A nurse swept close by. Startled, John turned to look out the window, trying to school his expression to something like neutral.

He started. Sherlock’s face was reflected back into the window, still and quiet, but for his eyes which had jumped to life scanning John's face in the glass before finally resting on a point that gave the feeling of eye contact. So quickly that John was nearly sure he imagined it, Sherlock winked at him.

“You brilliant bastard.” John breathed out, impossibly quiet and still. “Catatonia, my arse. You’ve been fooling them by going Elsewhere.”

John supposed that the place Sherlock went to in his head could make him seem catatonic. Deep in thought, Sherlock could turn himself off. His presence in a room was nearly negated, one could glance over him without seeing him at all. John had long ago dubbed it as ‘Elsewhere’ and tried not to get annoyed whenever Sherlock left him behind for the mysterious reaches of his complex mind. Today, annoyance was nowhere in the vicinity. Warmth suffused John’s chest and for a moment, he was nearly choked by the intensity of what he felt.

“This is the most horrible time I can possibly think of to tell you this for the first time, and you already know it, but I think I should say it anyway.” The low tone of secrecy worked well for the confession. “I love you.”

Sherlock’s twitching left thumb increased in its motion, digging in hard against John’s palm. He winced, opened his mouth to protest then shut it with a snap. Sherlock was never random. The movements weren’t an idle twitch. They were letters.

 _I. P. R. O. M. I. S. E._ Each letter carefully scratched into John’s skin.

“So do I. Always.” John resisted the urge to kiss him, but it was a near thing. “I’m going to get you out of here, Sherlock. I am. I’ll check out my lead tomorrow. I’m not near as good as you at this, but I’ve got help.”

“Mr. Saulson?” The nurse from the reception desk reappeared. “Just two more minutes.”

“Yes, all right.” John sighed, waiting for her to retreat a little before catching Sherlock’s eyes in the window again. “Do whatever you have to do to keep this from affecting you. It will be over soon. Then we’ll go home.”

 _C.A.R.E.F.U.L.D.A.N.G.E.R.O.U.S._ The scratch of S turned into a caress. John squeezed the hand under his tenderly, before getting up and going to face the world that separated them. He would like to say that he was stoic enough not to look back, but it would be a lie. When he looked over his shoulder, Sherlock hadn’t moved. He was staring out into the yard where a flock of crows had come to roost.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter gets quite gory. It has been beta'd by the wonderful Essie. All remaining mistakes are mind.

A forty minute train ride out of London landed John on a quiet street in the town of Surbiton. The garden and path were neatly manicured, but the house itself leaned heavily on it’s neighbor as if it were too tired to stand on it’s own. John shifted the bouquet of flowers from one hand to the other to knock. Soft sounds of movement rattled within until the door begrudgingly swung open.

If he had any lingering doubt of her relation to Sherlock, Amelia Holmes’ appearance would have put paid to it. Her thick hair was stark white and pulled sharply back in a stiff bun which only served to emphasize the eerie blue of her eyes and the generous lines of her lips. Like Sherlock’s mother, it was clear she had once been a very beautiful woman. Unlike that gracious lady though, there was no remnants of a kind one lingering in laugh lines or soft gestures. This was a woman made of steel.

“Hello, Mrs. Holmes.” He dredged up his best company smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Is it?” She stepped back from the door. “Orchids. You do know how to follow directions, I’ll give you that.” 

“Would you like me to put them in something?” He offered, stepping into the tight hallway. All of the windows were shut tight against any stray beams of light. The entirety of the cramped house was lit with dim lamps. 

“I’ll take them.” Her hands brushed his, and he could feel the strength beneath the wrinkled skin. “You best follow me into the kitchen. The sitting room would be more proper, but I see no need to stand on ceremony.”

John dutifully followed her down the hall into a surprisingly cozy kitchen. Unlike the stiff, dim formality of the rest of the house, the kitchen looked soft around the edges. The curtains were still heavy, but there was an overhead light that brightened the space considerably. Amelia settled the flowers into a beautiful crystal cut vase and walked back out to place them near the front door. When she returned, she set about making tea as if John weren’t sitting expectantly at the table.

“I-”

“Not yet.” She snapped, watching the kettle. “If we’re going to do this, I require tea and a biscuit.”

John subsided into silence. He watched her, aching at the familiarity of her tight controlled movements. How easy it was to imagine Sherlock at work with those same careful maneuvers. At last, she brought two cups of tea to the table and then a delicate plate of biscotti which she dipped gingerly into her cup, eyeing John as if daring him to comment on it. 

“Thank you.” He said instead, taking a sip of tea.

“You’re welcome.” She chewed over the tea soaked cookie for a long second then sighed. “I suppose it can’t be put off any longer. What has he done?”

“Excuse me?”

“My son. I told you, Mr. Watson, I’m not an idiot, and I know my son quite well. My husband died when he was still young. I did my best, but I never had any real maternal instinct I suppose. I did better with my daughter, but she was never clever like Mycroft. Down’s Syndrome.” She sighed. “Lovely child. They used to insist I put her in a home, but I’d never hear of it. She was my best companion.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“Why? You didn’t know her, and I doubt you care for my delicate feelings.” She sipped her tea, face utterly calm. “I’m not telling you this for sympathy. My son came home for the funeral which surprised me. Usually he visits once a year like clockwork. Never came back for a wedding or a funeral. We had a quiet lunch together and that was the last time I saw him. He’s missed two yearly visits now. I assume that was your first question.”

“It was on the list.” He admitted. “Mrs. Holmes, do you watch the news? Or read the papers?”

“No. Why would I?” She asked as if he had proposed a trip to the moon. “My life is hardly affected by what goes on in the greater world. I prefer to exist apart from it. If it’s critical, then one of the gossiping hens nearby would tell me.”

“This might effect you.” John reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of newspaper, greatly crumpled in the journey. He smoothed it out over her table. A large picture of Sherlock’s father talking to several M.P.s graced the top. “This is the Evelyn Holmes I know.”

“That worthless piece of shit.” She hissed with such ferocity that John scooted his chair back before he could think. “How dare he!”

“I was right then. This is your son?”

“Yes.” She tapped the face of Sherlock’s father with a nail, hard enough to cut into the paper. “I bore him, though I wish I could say otherwise.”

“You had no idea that he was using his cousin’s name?”

“None. I knew he was lying to me about what he was doing in London, about why he never came home. I had imagined it was unsavory. But this? Stupid.” She snatched her hand back to wrap around the tea cup. “So stupid of me. I should have known. I suppose I didn’t want to.”

“What has he told you?”

“Oh, that he has a stationary shop. He can never afford enough help, of course.” She laughed, bitterly. “My apologies, I can’t visit until May, Mother. The shop, you know. Ha!”

“Did he tell you he was married?”

“Married?” She coughed, the same harsh wet rasp that John had heard over the phone. “He could never bear being with just one girl. Even in secondary school, he always had two or three girls on a string. ”

“Oh, um.” John tried not to flush. “Well he is. Married, I mean. And there are children.”

She set down her teacup very slowly, her sharp eyes cutting into John’s.

“Do you mean to tell me that I have grandchildren?”

“Two. Mycroft, well Mycroft Junior I suppose. He’s in politics too, but I think he works in the traffic division or something.” Something ambiguous and frightening. “And there’s Sherlock. He’s sort of the reason I’m here, actually. ”

“Do you have a photograph?” Her voice cracked, much to her obvious dismay. “Please.”

“Yeah, I...not of Mycroft, but I have one of Sherlock.”

He’d had to cut down the shot so that it would fit in his wallet, but he thought it was a good one anyway. The picture showed Sherlock leaning against a telephone pole, caught in profile with the slightest of smiles creasing his face. It had been a cloudy afternoon and the shot gave the impression of a young Byronic poet trembling on the edge of discovery. At least that’s how it looked to John, but he could admit that he was biased. Amelia took it in her hand, scrutinizing it like it might yield endless clues. To a Holmes perhaps it would.

“Sherlock.” She touched the picture like she had the clipping, but with more reverence. “That was my father’s name. I didn’t think Mycroft would remember him. What kind of child is he?”

“Smart. Genius, actually.” He glanced over at the picture. “He’s very intense, focused on what he wants. He can be kind when he wants to be, though that’s not often. The world interests him, but sometimes it’s like he’s a visitor from somewhere else.”

“And you care about him a great deal.” She handed the photo back. “I don’t know many teenage boys that carry photographs of their friends in their wallets.”

“Yes, well.” John reddened. “He’s important. To me.”

“I see.” She looked him over as if for the first time, then nodded. “So. My son has a second life and he’s profaning the name of his dead cousin for it. You guessed at this and decided to investigate.”

“Yes, that’s the sum of it.” He explained about the faked kidnapping charges, Mycroft the Younger’s claims of abuse, and Sherlock’s predicament. She listened the same way Sherlock did with frightening focus and apparent detachment. “... so that’s why I’m here, really. I need something that will show that your son is an unfit parent. I’m sorry, I know that’s a horrible thing to ask, but I don’t know how else to do this.”

“Very practical of you.” She said vaguely, dipping her biscotti into the tea again. Instead of lifting it out again, she left it to dissolve. “And you imagined that I’d help you?”

“For all I knew, you were in on it.” John shrugged. “But I had to try.”

“You don’t think I am?”

“You were surprised about having grandkids. Maybe you were faking it, but I don’t think so.” He sipped his own, now cold, tea. “And even if you were, I can’t imagine you having never met them. Sherlock always said his grandparents were dead.”

“Do you think he’d be pleased to find out he was wrong?”

“I think he’d be thrilled to meet you. Mycroft too. They both miss their mum a lot. Bet they’d like having a grandmother.”

“I’ll help you because at this moment I think death too good for my son. Perhaps a lifetime incarceration will feel sufficient.” She took her cup and threw it with great strength in the direction of the sink. It landed just inside sending up a spray of shattered porcelain. John looked at her wide eyed. “I’ve always hated that set. Up on your feet, Mr. Watson. We’ll have this conversation walking.”

“John.” He insisted, rising on shaky legs. “Please, call me John.”

“You may call me Amelia.” She kicked a stray shard towards the cabinets. “Do not use it lightly.”

“I won’t.”

Tugging on a thick wool coat, Amelia headed down the walkway towards the street with John following gamely after. The coat overwhelmed her tiny figure, and as soon as John came level with her, she grabbed onto his arm, leaning heavily. Her grip was tight, her pace brisk, but the overall impression was one of frailty somehow. He wondered if it was intentional.

“Evelyn was a sweet boy.” She started talking as they passed the corner of the street, heading away from a tiny row of shops. “My sister had him only a few months before I had Mycroft. She thought it was fantastic. Thought they’d get to grow up like brothers. I knew that wouldn’t happen as soon as Mycroft was born though. He was too much like me. His father was a practical, everyday sort of man. Carpenter, pub after work and then home for a warm meal before an early night, you know. I married him because I had no choices and he seemed the man least likely to get in my way.”

“What did you want to do?” He asked, despite himself. It hardly mattered to the case at hand.

“Become a doctor.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe that long ago folly. “I would have made a good one too.”

“Yes, you would have.” He could imagine her hand steady on a scalpel. Though the bedside manner might have been an issue. “But you got married instead.”

“And got pregnant immediately.” She sighed. “I never thought about children. Never wanted one, let alone two. If I were a superstitious person, I would say that my son was my punishment. But I’m not. I know exactly how he came to be. Too clever and too callous by nature, turned cold by nurture. I went through the motions with him, but any tenderness I had went to my daughter.”

“You tried.” He offered uncomfortably. Certainly Sherlock’s mother had given him much that his father couldn’t or wouldn’t provide and it wasn’t hard to imagine what might have happened without that. “It’s not like you intended this.”

“No. I didn’t.” The road started to rise gently up, taking them away from houses entirely and into green pasture. “But intentions have little to do with results. He was only twelve when I first suspected he was a monster.”

All the warmth went out of the sun for John, and he stopped walking. She raised an imperious eyebrow.

“I thought you said you thought he was stealing? That’s hardly monstrous.”

“That was until you told me he had stolen his cousin’s identity.” She started walking until her grip on John’s arm forced him to continue on with her. “That confirmed a theory I have long hoped unprovable.”

“What theory?”

“I’m telling you. Patience.” She chided. “Evelyn liked football and other normal boyish things. He did well enough in school, but he was no bright star. Much like my sister and her husband. Pleasant, decent people without much ambition. Not my son. Mycroft was driven. By the time he was five, he was the social star of his school, but he never had any particular friends. He could change himself to fit whatever one person liked then change back as soon as they were gone. It never troubled me then. I was once the same way.”

“Not anymore?”

“I’m too old and tired to care what people of think of me.” She snorted. “I should have cared less then. I would have paid more attention to what was happening under my nose. Mycroft mostly ignored Evelyn and the two of them were rarely together. That’s why that day was so odd.

“It was in May. Mycroft was twelve and Evelyn was barely thirteen. My sister had come by with him and we were all in the sitting room for tea. Evelyn was telling us about a goal he had scored. I wasn’t often physically affectionate, but I reached out to ruffle his hair. That was when Mycroft came home. The look on his face...it was utterly blank and cold. I thought he might have had a bad day at school, but before I could ask, it was gone.

“‘Come on, Evey.’ He said, ‘You must be bored.’ They went upstairs to his bedroom. Mycroft didn’t usually offer and my sister rarely went anywhere without Evelyn. I was just pleased to have a bit of time with her to myself, I suppose. We went to the kitchen, drank wine and talked while I made dinner. Around seven, Mycroft came back downstairs alone. He said Evelyn had run back down the street to buy gum and that he would be back in a few minutes.”

“Evelyn never came back from the shop.” John guessed.

“No. He never made it to the store at all, according to the girl behind the counter. The whole town turned out to search for him. It took three days to find the body.” She sighed. “We’re close now.”

They walked a little further in heavy silence. John spotted the rotting wood cross in the tall grass just before they actually reached it.

“Is this where they found him?” He tried to imagine a body lain out among the willowy strands of green.

“The killing was vicious, but methodical.” She let out a long breath through her nose, then coughed a few times. John put an arm around her and she didn’t shrug it away even after the cough had cleared. “Trussed him up first then sliced Evelyn open from forehead to thigh, and across the gut. Laid out all his organs next to him in the grass like a dissection. I identified him. I wouldn’t let my sister see the body. There’s only so much one person should have to stand.”

“That’s horrid.” John’s imagination provided far too clear a visual now. “Did the police have any suspects?”

“No.” She brushed a single strand of loose hair from her forehead. “The investigation dragged on for years. They finally told my sister that it was unlikely that they’d ever locate him. That the killer was a stranger, passing through without leaving a trace behind.”

“When did you start to suspect your son?”

“It took longer than it should have.” She dropped her hold on John’s arm and waded a little into the grass. “He was the last one to see Evelyn alive. He’d exhibited violent tendencies before though he’d learned early to be secretive about it. I’d caught him pinching his sister for instance. Not playfully, but in a series of them up her arm as if he were measuring something. I stopped leaving the two of them alone together after that.”

“Big leap from pinches to murder.”

“I told you, he learned to hide it. You know what he’s done to his own sons. I’m sure he considers them a cut above the rest of humanity and he still...” She shook away the thought. “I started to suspect him when I found the knife in his underwear drawer, months after Evelyn died. The knife had been his father’s and I’d given it to him for his birthday that year. Before then, Mycroft always kept it at his desk. I couldn’t figure out how it had wound up in there. It looked sharp and very clean to me, which was also odd. The knife hadn’t been used for anything for years and had rusted some before I gave it to him.” 

“That was when you knew?”

“Yes.” She coughed hard. “I knew. I knew...everything. How he must have led Evelyn out here on a pretense and tied him up. I can’t imagine what excuse Mycroft provided, but Evelyn must have known something was wrong once the knife came out. The first part of the cut was ragged like he was still struggling.”

“You don’t have too. This must be hard...” He trailed off when she turned a pointed glare on him.

“I might as well have done it myself.” Her proud shoulders slumped. “I put him on this earth, made him what he was one way or another and then I kept his secrets.”

“Why?” He thought of his own mother, turning her back on him for a quirk of sexuality. “Why wouldn’t you turn him in?”

“Because he’s my son.” She said simply and it cut into John more than he was expecting. “I thought that I had to be wrong. That he couldn’t have done it. After all, he would have been covered in blood. I rationalized that for years. It would have taken him time to walk out here, murder Evelyn then come home. When would he have had time to clean off? He wore the same clothing he’d had on all day. They should have been soaked in blood.”

“That makes sense. What changed your mind?”

“When you came to me today and told me he’d taken his cousin’s identity. It was obvious to me. That is the act of a shameless man.” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “And a shameless man would think nothing of killing his cousin in the nude. There’s a stream not far from here. He swam in it after, then dressed again. The day was warm, he would have been entirely dry by the time he climbed back in through his bedroom window.”

“It seems a little...complicated.” John admitted.

“Does it?” She looked him over. “As complicated as living a double life and incarcerating your own son in a mental institution?”

“Just about.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Is there any evidence? Do you still have the knife?”

“Long gone. I put it back in the drawer and the next time I looked for it, he’d moved it. The rest of the evidence is still with the police.” She took John’s arm again. “Take me home.”

They walked back in silence. John turned the story over and over again in his mind and tried to make sense of it. He kept coming back to one question.

“Why then?” He asked when they reached the top of her street again. “Why Evelyn?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She smiled, mirthless and tight. “Because he was bored. Because he could.”

“Oh.” His stomach ached with the thought. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, thank you for telling me this, but I don’t know what to do with it.”

“You seem reasonably smart.” She snapped. “So think. Mycroft was only a boy when he killed Evelyn.”

“Yes?” He looked at her bemused and had to suppress a laugh born of hysterics when she made the same ‘do I really have to explain this?’ face that Sherlock had made so many times.

“He killed at twelve. Do you really think he stopped there?” She opened the front door to the house and this time made no space for him to come inside. “You have your work cut out for you.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you, m’am.” He turned to start the walk back to the train when she called out.

“John!”

“Yes?”

“When you’ve finished your crusade, I want to meet my grandsons.” She pinned him with a hard look. “You promise that you’ll bring them to me.”

“I promise.” He replied thickly.

“Good. That’s...good. Thank you.” She blinked a few times, coughed then disappeared back into the leaning house with a final slam of the door. 

The train ride home went by in a blur as John tried to reorganize his plan. He’d expected to get something out of the visit to Amelia, but the tragic story had taken him off guard. When he got back to the flat, he fished around in his dirty laundry until he found the card the young Constable had foisted on him. A private number had been scrawled hastily on the back of it. John rang it before he could talk himself out of it.

“Hello?” The voice was definitely Lestrade’s. There was some background sound, a television and a woman laughing.

“Hi. This is John Watson. You arrested me the other day?” He offered then winced at how that sounded. “You said I could call you if I needed help.”

“Yes, right! Of course.” Footsteps and then a door closing, muting the background noise. “What can I do for you John?”

“I think I’ve figured out something, but I’m going to need access to police files.”

“Uh, you know when I said I help, I meant more like...” Lestrade trailed off. “Never mind. Why do you need them?”

“I think Sherlock’s father might be a serial killer.” Out loud it sounded even less likely than it had in his head. “He murdered his cousin and used his name later on. His real name is Mycroft Holmes. That was years ago, but his mother thinks he wouldn’t stop at just one.”

“Sounds like you’ve had an interesting few days.” Lestrade said after a long pause. “And gotten quite a story out of it.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but I need to know if there are any unsolved cases involving people cut open and having their organs taken out. He’s been in London a long time, he must have killed here at least once. Serial killers don’t change their M.O.”

“M.O.?” Lestrade snorted. “You’ve been reading too many mystery novels. What do you know about serial killers?”

“I’m serious. Please. Ask around at least. It would have been really ugly, people would remember it. He might have tied the victims up first, before dissecting them.”

“Dissecting them.” Lestrade repeated with a note of disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“I told you he takes out all the organs. That’s what his mother said anyway. Maybe he does it differently now.”

“Where are you right now?”

“At our flat.”

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.” Lestrade sighed. “I hate to say it, but it does ring a bell. I think I can get us into the files as long as the night clerk is on.”

“Oh, thank fucking god.” John breathed shakily.

“Don’t thank me yet. Those files aren’t easy to look at.”

The line went dead and John immediately dialed Mycroft the younger.

“I’ve got something.” He said as soon as the line picked up. “Your father is a fucking psycho.”

“That isn’t something.” Mycroft replied crisply. “Just a well known fact.”

“I met someone today. She thinks he’s a serial killer.”

“Did she have evidence?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out. A...friend, I guess, is coming to help me look through some police files.”

“You have friends with the police?” The ‘do they know you killed one of them?’ was only lightly implied, but John bristled anyway.

“He’s different. Nice bloke. Only wanted to keep you updated.” He hung up before Mycroft could get another word in. 

Lestrade buzzed up only a few minutes later. Protective of his space, John didn’t invite him up. They met on the sidewalk and headed towards the Tube. Dressed in his off hours clothes, Lestrade didn’t look much older than John himself. They could have been mates going out for a drink, instead of on a gruesome quest for information.

“I’m sorry to bother you on a night off.” John ventured.

“S’fine. I admit, you’ve got me curious.” 

Scotland Yard yielded to Lestrade’s identification with some eyebrows raised at John trailing in his wake. They wove through the building down into the basement, past doors marked ‘Morgue’ and ‘Autopsy’. They reached ‘Records’ and pushed right on through.

“Greg!” A dough-faced young man behind bullet proof glass lit up like Christmas. “Haven’t seen you in ages!”

“Hello, Dan.” Lestrade returned the bright smile. It looked suspiciously fake, but Dan didn’t seem to notice. “How’s Claire?”

“Oh, fine, fine. She’s expecting our second any day now. Gotten big as a cow and twice as grumpy.” A high pitched laughter rent the air and John fought the urge to make a face. “Don’t suspect you came all this way to chat though.”

“No, you’re right. I want to take a look at some records on the Scientist case.”

“That’s a right nasty one.” Dan’s face couldn’t seem to hold an expression of distaste, but it tried its best. “Thought they’d given up the ghost on him.”

“We might have a lead.”

“Right then, you know procedure. Sign in, mark what you take.”

“I’ll read it here, thanks.” 

Dan passed a ledger through the hole in the glass, joking with Lestrade as he signed and dated it. The loud echo of an automatic latch sounded and Lestrade quickly pushed through the door, ushering John after him.

“He didn’t seem to see me.” John said when the door clicked closed behind them.

“What he can’t see, he can’t talk about.” Greg’s smile was strained at the edges. “I’ll owe him a favor.”

“A big one?”

“Not as long as we don’t take anything.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault, kid. I make up my own mind.”

The boxed evidence of thousands of cases lined the walls of cramped rooms, but Lestrade seemed to know exactly where he was going.

“Here.” He slid a box from the shelf and put it into John’s hands. Then he took two more for himself. They were all labeled with the same case number. “This is only the latest victim; we’ll come back for the rest later.”

Somewhere in the labyrinthine mess, they located a table and chairs. Lestrade handed John a pair of latex gloves, before they opened the first box.

“I should warn you that there will be photos.” Lifting out manila folders and clear plastic bags, Greg looked in his element. Serious and calm. “If you need to throw up, try to make it to the bin. It could compromise the evidence.”

“Should I tell you what we’re looking for?” John asked. “Maybe I should have tried to get Evelyn Holmes’ files first, but I guess I wasn’t thinking about it.”

“How long ago was his death?”

“Forty years or thereabouts.”

“Probably useless by now. They wouldn’t have gathered the things we can use. and a lot of the evidence would have decomposed if it wasn’t stored properly. It never seems to be in cases that age. Still, if there’s a connection it might be worth a look.” Lestrade frowned, flipping open a folder to a neatly typed report. “Yasmin Friar, age 16. The Scientist got her four years ago.”

“Scientist because of the dissections?”

“Exactly. The bodies were all sliced open like this.” Lestrade laid out a glossy photo, watching John’s face.

Whatever had been done to Yasmin, she no longer looked human. It made it both harder and easier to look at. She had been sliced open once vertically and once horizontally, the skin pulled back to reveal a torso empty but for her ribcage and the gleaming line of her spine behind it. The remnants of her complicated internal life had been arranged neatly next to her. John sucked in a deep breath, swallowed hard then nodded.

“That’s awful.” He met Lestrade’s searching gaze. “How many victims were there?”

“Six certainties and two possibles. Both of the possibles were earlier, technique wasn’t as refined then. Five female, three male, between the ages of fourteen and twenty-six. All of the bodies were found in Battersea Park, though they weren’t killed there. None of them were dead more than a day before being found.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“My first week on the job, they found Yasmin.” Lestrade picked the picture back up, tucking it reverently back into the file. “She was homeless, but she had friends. They identified her almost immediately. I was in charge of keeping them from getting under the tape and seeing the body.”

“You developed an interest in the case.”

“An obsession.” He admitted with a tight, unhappy smile. “I wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with it, but I couldn’t help picking it over. Before Yasmin, it’d been five years since we’d found a victim. It was unusual to find a killer who paced himself. They’re supposed to escalate rapidly. Mental decomposition. That was before I read more and realized that there’s no usually when it comes to serial killers. At least, no one’s found one yet.”

“Were there ever any suspects?” John reached for a plastic bag that contained a bloodied cloth. Its label claimed it as the victim’s shirt, but it could have been anything.

“No serious ones. He was very neat. No fingerprints or stray fibers. There were shoe prints at several of the scenes.” Flipping through the pages of Yasmin’s file, he found another photo and drew it out. It was a close up of a clean impression of a shoe in mud. “Size ten dress shoes. We couldn’t trace a maker. Do you know how most serial killers get caught?”

“No.”

“A victim escapes.” Lestrade stared down at the shoeprint. “This guy has a kill room, I guarantee it. No one escapes him.” 

“But we have a suspect.” John fished out the news article with the torn photo, laying it on the table. “We just have to find the evidence that ties him to the crimes.”

“I can assist with that.” Mycroft appeared ,as if summoned, standing in the doorway in his immaculate dark suit. “Really, John. Don’t look so surprised.”

“You know this man?”

“Sherlock’s older brother. Mycroft. Not the...” He gestured at the news article.

“Not the what?” Myrcroft strolled into the room, settling into a third chair. “You claimed earlier that you would keep me in the loop, John. I find myself firmly outside of it and not enjoying the experience.”

“How’d you get in here?” Lestrade asked, looking Mycroft over as if he might take out a gun at any moment.

“I have more right to be here then either of you.” Mycroft said nonchalantly. “Now, John. Explain.”

John spilled every detail he could recall, then provided still further ones as Mycroft questioned him like a suspected terrorist. Lestrade listened in silence, eyes heavy-lidded, but John could tell he was anything but sleepy. 

“And you think you can help sort out this mess.” Lestrade asked as soon as the last word passed through John’s lips.

“I’m the most suitable person to look over this case. No one knows him like I do.” Mycroft took up Yasmin’s file and flipped it casually open. John winced for him when he reached the photo. He had thought Mycroft’s facade uncrackable, but the man’s physiology betrayed him. He went very white and set the folder carefully back down. “And there are eight of these?”

“That we found, yes.” Lestrade took the folder back, laying a protective hand on it. “If Mrs. Holmes is right then he started killing forty years ago. That makes me think that we’re missing a lot of bodies. The ones we found, he wanted us to find.”

“Taunts.” Mycroft chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Evenly spaced to keep reminding the police that they were failing.”

“Then how many bodies are there, do you think?” John asked.

The three of them took a moment of silence to contemplate it, the air growing dense and chilled with the thought.

“We can only figure it out by digging.” Lestrade finally said. “And we won’t do it sitting on our arses.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft rose. “Let’s get the rest of the evidence, shall we? A fuller picture should provide more clues.”

By the time they’d laid everything it out, it looked like a horrific collage. Each murder site was obsessively similar as if the killer was working from a photograph.

“If we could layer these on top of each other, I bet they would match up.” John commented late into the night.

“Father has a near perfect memory. He could easily do something like that.” Mycroft looked over the photos again, rapid fire. “The corpses were all the same height and build in life. All dark haired. He’s reliving the murder of his cousin. Perfecting it.”

“That still doesn’t get us any closer to hard evidence.” Three emptied cups of coffee were stacked next to Lestrade’s elbow. “Which is what we need. If we could just get to his kill room.”

“It would be close to the park.” Mycroft spread out a blown up map, littered with red dots. “If he could get away with it, it would be in the park itself to reenact the first crime, but that would be too risky.”

“Could you get a listing of his property holdings?” Lestrade leaned over the map, tracing streets with an ink stained finger tip.

“He wouldn’t be so foolish as to put it under the Holmes name.”

“But he would have bought this years ago. Maybe even before he met your mother.” John jumped it. “Does he have any of his own money? He told Amelia that he owned a stationary shop.”

“Father? Own a shop?” Mycroft snorted.

“Be a good cover.” John shrugged. “For a torture chamber.”

“Are you kidding?” Lestrade shook his head. “It would never work. Customers in and out all day? A staff? He’d never hide it from that many people.”

“No. He couldn’t! Don’t you see?” Mycroft slapped a hand on the table, then looked down at it as if shocked that he’d done such a thing. “It’s a closed shop. Out of business. Tied up in some endless legal battle would be perfect. He wouldn’t have to pay a dime for it, just move in and keep an eye on the lawsuits. If they ever resolved it, he could slip back in and fix it up.”

“How do we find it then?” John looked over the map.

“Old fashioned police work.” Lestrade grinned, clapping Mycroft on the shoulder. “We go looking.”

“Quite.” Mycroft shifted fractionally away from the touch. “I’ll call the car around.”

Lestrade and Mycroft bickered over the map as they eased into the car. Giving into fatigue for a brief moment, John rested his head against the cool glass of the window and watched two sets of hands flying over a battered photocopy. There was something elegant in it, the rough chops of Lestrade’s capable blunt fingertips and the more nuanced sweeps of Mycroft’s elegant rounded ones. The car swept through the night darkened streets, working in a spiral out from the park. John spotted the shop first and let go of the brief peace to point it out.

“Windows are boarded up.” He said softly. “There’s a sign: ‘Saucy Jack’s Stationary’, I think it says.”

“Where?” Lestrade and Mycroft snapped in unison then glanced back uneasily at each other.

“We only just passed it.”

Mycroft rapped on the glass and the car pulled to a soundless stop. They clamored out with Mycroft still giving instructions to his invisible driver. Down the street, light flooded out from a local pub and strains of piano drifted towards them. The rest was in perfect darkness and quiet. 

The shopfront was dark and long abandoned, the wood over the windows starting to rot. John thought of a cross in long grass, slowly returning to the earth and shuttered. He watched Lestrade drop to one knee and do something to the doorknob until it gave way. 

“A policeman who carries lockpicks.” Mycroft nudged Lestrade aside with his foot, stepping into the building first.

“I wasn’t always a cop.” Lestrade winked at John, and they went into the dark together.

Oddly enough, Mycroft proved to have a compact torch hidden in the folds of his immaculate suit where a normal man might keep a spare pen. It didn’t dare flicker as he turned it on, shining bright light into every corner. There were counters, emptied of goods and covered in dust. They head silently into the back into of a room that might once have held stock or a staff room. 

“Here.” Mycoft flickered the light off a slight irregularity in the floor. “There’s an entrance of some sort.”

They looked at him and he looked back expectantly. Apparently, he wasn’t going to lower himself to squatting down and opening the thing. John wasn’t entirely sure Mycroft would know how to squat. Would his joints bend that way? Lestrade did it instead, brushing his hands over a layer of dust to make out the dim outline of a door. In his sweeps, he found a keyhole and deftly picked it. 

The door that he lifted up wasn’t a thin plank of wood. It was heavy, solid metal and looked like an entrance to a meat freezer. Cold air wafted upwards along with a faint smell of antiseptic cleaners. Stairs lead down into the dark.

“We should call someone.” Lestrade rocked back on his heels.

With a swift negation, Mycroft handed Lestrade the torch and set his foot to the first rung of the ladder. “Thoroughness saves lives, Constable.”

“You should stay here, kid.” Lestrade looked over to John, even as he shined the torch down for Mycroft. “There’re only so many things you need to see tonight.”

“If you call me kid one more time, I will kick you in the shin.” John muttered mutinously and followed Mycroft down before Lestrade could stop him.

“Ah, a light switch,” came Mycroft’s voice off to his left. Harsh florescent light flooded the room, refracting off the perfect shine of metal walls.

The entire room appeared to be made of spotless chrome. Industrial freezer units lined the walls, their combined mechanical hum vibrating the metal under their feet. In the center of the room was a table with odd contortions.

“An autopsy table.” Lestrade hissed. “That son of a bitch. Where would he even get one?”

“Pose as an undertaker. Embalming tables look much the same and he would only have to make a few minor adjustments.” Mycroft approached the table, never quite close enough to touch.

Pulling the arm of his jumper over his hand, Lestrade carefully drew up the lid on one of the freezers then dropped it back down with a thick swallow.

“What is it?” John asked, a sinking suspicion in his stomach. 

“You don’t have to know.” 

“He’s hardly an innocent.” Mycroft cut in. “But the contents are clear. Look to the labels.”

Lestrade and John’s eyes dropped to the plaque affixed to the front of the freezer. _Lungs_ read the neatly typed label. _Livers_ said the one the left and _Kidneys_ said the right. 

“How many are in there?” 

“It’s nearly full.” He shuddered. “This...we have to get out before we contaminate any more of the evidence. Don’t touch anything with your bare skin if you can manage.”

“Really, Constable-”

“Shut it, Mycroft. If this is what it looks like then your father may have one of the highest body counts of any known single serial killer. We can’t risk muddying the waters.” Heading toward the ladder, Lestrade took the rungs more carefully with fabric still pulled taut over his hands. “I’ll wipe down the locks. That should smear whatever prints I left enough. Did either of you touch anything?”

In the end, they had to suffice with rubbing over the railings of the pulled down staircase and both locks with Mycroft’s handkerchief. Out on the corner, Lestrade ducked into a telephone booth with his hand still wrapped cautiously with the flimsy bit of fabric.

“What about the shop name tipped you both off?” John leaned heavily on the side of the booth, fatigue catching up with him.

“I thought that one common knowledge.” Tucking his hands into his pockets, Mycroft turned his back on the shop. “One of the letters purporting to be from Jack the Ripper had the killer referring to himself as ‘Saucy Jack’.”

“Of for fuck’s sake.” John laughed, shaky and croaking. “Why didn’t he just label the damn place ‘Killer Lives Here’.”

“He did. That was his purpose. All of this. It’s a taunt. A reminder of how much smarter he is than the rest of us.”

“A reminder to the police? But if they never found the place... so it was just what? A private joke?”

“Something like that.” Dismissively, Mycroft looked down the street, signaling for the car to come in. His hand froze mid-signal. “Oh, John. Now I see why Sherlock likes you so excessively. You ask just the right questions.”

“I do?” He narrowed his eyes. “What did I ask?”

“The taunt isn’t for the police. He wouldn’t imagine them ever piecing it together. The shop...that was aimed at a much higher intelligence.”

“Oi!” Lestrade protested, sliding back out onto the sidewalk. “I may not be a genius, but I got us here, didn’t I?”

“You don’t understand.” Mycroft huffed. “The message. The taunt. It’s for me. He trained me to think like this. He wanted me to find out.”

“Why?” John glanced at Lestrade, who only shrugged.

“It’s a game. It’s all just a game to him. A game with only one other worthy player.” He wasn’t quite speaking to them anymore. Like Sherlock, he’d gone Elsewhere, eyes trained in the distance. “He’s let us capture his queen. Or he planned on it. We weren’t looking after the king.”

“The king?” Lestrade blinked. Mycroft caught John’s eyes and John could see so much there. Regret. Guilt.

“Sherlock...” gasped John. “He’ll go after Sherlock. But how would he know we were here?”

“Stupid!” Mycroft walked briskly back to the shop, shining his beam inside again. “Cameras. Silent alarms. He wouldn’t set all this up without precautions. He knew the minute we stepped inside. We must go. Now.”

As they piled into the car, the first police sirens sounded like distant wails of the dead. Mycroft unearthed a bulky phone from under the seat, punching numbers in rapidly and issuing instructions. John heard none of it. The entire white knuckle drive to the facility, he kept his hands firmly on his knees and his eyes closed. His mind was utterly, deliberately blank. If he allowed himself to think at all, it would all be lost. 

As soon as the car had slowed to a stop, he was out the door and running. Behind him, he could hear Lestrade shouting at him, but his concentration couldn’t afford to be split. He ran up the dark lawn and into the posh foyer. The same cheerful nurse sat behind the desk.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He demanded, breathing hard. “I’m his cousin.”

“I’m afraid he was just checked out, sir.”

“No...oh god no.” John clung to the desk. 

“Breathe.” A solid arm went around his shoulders. Lestrade was at his back. “We got him, John. That’s what I was trying to tell you when you dashed out of the car.”

“We...how?”

“Mycroft pretended to be their father. He said considering the circumstances...”

“Oh..oh. Then where is he?” 

“John.” 

Dressed in his own clothes, immaculate and unruffled, Sherlock stood at the top of the staircase. He took each step cautiously as if unsure of his feet and it killed John a little with each slow movement downward. When he reached the bottom, he hesitated. Desperately, John held out his arms. That broke whatever spell lingered in Sherlock’s mind and in an instant he was filling the empty embrace.

He took John’s face between his hands, fluttering his fingertips over every centimeter as if he were blind. His lips followed, tracing the line of John’s brow, nose and eyes. It was mad and wonderful, and John sucked in deep gulps of air. He hadn’t realized that he couldn’t breathe properly, while Sherlock was gone. Now, his lungs were working again and fighting for every bit of air they could get while his hands clenched around Sherlock’s waist.

“Never again.” John said when Sherlock’s lips finally brushed his own. “I can’t live like that.”

He waited for Sherlock to scoff or kiss him until they both forgot that ridiculous statement. Sherlock did neither. He drew back enough to look John carefully in the eye.

“I assure you, the feeling is mutual.” Then Sherlock kissed him. It was fervent and sloppy. John could have lived in that kiss, dragging Sherlock closer.

“Teenagers.” Lestrade grunted with a half-laugh somewhere off behind John. “We’re still here boys.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft coughed. “This is a public place, Sherlock.”

“John.” Sherlock said very slowly, backing off just enough to talk. “While I was incarcerated, did you put together a team?”

“Um. Only a small one?” 

“I see.”

“Your father is probably one of the worst serial killers in the history of ever. I needed some help.”

“Serial killer.” Sherlock repeated the words, letting them linger on his tongue. “My childhood has suddenly snapped into far greater clarity. Mycroft?”

“It does fit the evidence. I should have guessed much earlier. I apologize.”

“Not accepted.” Sherlock snapped, the hint of a smile lingering on the left side of his mouth.

“I’d like to point out that said killer is still at a large.” Lestrade interrupted. “We got to Sherlock before him, so what now?”

“I believe you’ve been advocating for letting the police do their job.” Offered Mycroft dryly.

“That was before I knew we were playing chess with some kind of murder savant.”

“We got the king, right?” John rubbed this thumb over Sherlock’s wrist. “Isn’t that checkmate?”

“He’s hardly going to just give up. He’s been waiting for the endgame for too long.” 

“Explain.” Sherlock demanded, even has put his free hand in John’s hair. He ruffled through it methodically as if re-inventorying every hair. “I need all the facts.”

_I wasn’t often physically affectionate, but reached out to ruffle his hair. That was when Mycroft came home. The look on his face...it was utterly blank and cold._

“Mycroft. What if Sherlock isn’t the king?”

“Of course he is. We’ve always fought over Sherlock.” Quick blue eyes narrowed, taking in all of Mycroft as if trying to reconcile this new information. “He’s always been the key.”

”No, not always. This started long before both of you were born.” John pointed out, then groaned as it all finally came together in his head.’“He’s going to go after Amelia.”

“Amelia?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Your grandmother.” John tugged him to the car. “I’ll explain on the way.”

Lestrade, in joking imitation, reached out to grab Mycroft’s arm to pull him into the backseat. The horrified look on both Holmes brothers’ faces doubled him over in laughter.

“Where did you find him?” Sherlock turned to John.

“He arrested me.”

“Begin there. I need everything.”

It was easier to tell Sherlock than it had been Mycroft and Lestrade. For one thing, Sherlock didn’t interrupt. He also held tightly to John’s hand the entire time and brushed a distracted kiss over his forehead when he finished. Then Sherlock turned on Mycroft and Lestrade to rattle off questions like a Gatling gun. It put Mycroft’s interrogation to shame.

“I need to think.” Sherlock sank down in his seat, eyes closed. 

John leaned over enough to rest his head on Sherlock’s side. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It was as if his body acknowledged his boyfriend taking control of the situation and decided to come off of high alert without consulting his brain. When he woke they were pulling onto Amelia’s street. The curtains were still drawn tightly across the windows making it impossible to tell if behind them one of her low watt lamps remained on.

“What time is it?” He asked, running a hand through his hair. 

“Going on three...” Lestrade yawned. Mycroft and Sherlock were talking in whispers that still somehow managed to convey angry yelling. “They’ve been going at it for the past twenty minutes.”

“About what?”

“No idea. Stopped listening after the first insult in Greek.” 

“Thank you. For you know. Doing all of this.” John smiled weakly at him. “Bit above and beyond.”

“No need. If it weren’t so horrible, it’d be exciting.” Lestrade glanced over at the brothers. “I can see why you were willing to wreck my car door for him. Bit of a prat though.”

“Yeah, well. My prat, you know?”

“If you insist on talking about me as if I weren’t sitting right next to you, the least you could do is compliment me.” Sherlock complained. 

“What’s the plan then?” John asked. “Many compliments awarded for a good one.”

“He wants to go in with metaphorical guns blazing.” Mycroft snorted.

“Father would never expect it. He’s always harping on about subtlety.”

“We don’t know what we’re walking into.” Lestrade pointed out. “What if he has a real gun? Those hurt more than the metaphorical ones, I’ve heard.”

“I’ll go in.” John reached for the door handle. “If he’s not there, Amelia will at least recognize me. The rest of you lot will scare her off.”

Two hands hit his shoulders, dragging him back. Sherlock and Lestrade both glared at him while Mycroft shook his head.

“You will not be shot.” Sherlock ordered. “You promised.”

“I don’t think the promise extended to me dying. I can’t really control that.”

“You don’t have to throw yourself on a sword.”

“Look, I like Amelia and if your father is already in there with her, she might not have much time.” He got to the door handle again. “I’m not letting her get chopped up and put in a freezer because we had to bicker this all out first. Anyway, if Mycroft is right-”

“I always am.”

“Shut it.” Sherlock barked, not taking his eyes from John’s face.

“Then one of you walking in is just what he wants. One of his players or game pieces or whatever.” He leaned in to kiss Sherlock quickly. “He won’t be expecting me. Maybe that’ll be enough to throw him off.”

Before they could grab at him again, John was on the sidewalk and at the door, knocking. A curtain in the living room twitched. After a few still, heart-in-mouth moments, the doorknob turned. 

“Mr. Watson.” Amelia smiled thinly at him. “Do you know how late it is?”

“Not too late.” He let out a relieved breath. “I was worried.”

“Ah. Sherlock’s loyal dog.” A dark silky voice purred from the shadows in the hall. “Mummy, do let our guest inside.”

“Ah.” John frowned. “So. Bit too late then?”

“He’s got the knife.” She replied flatly. “It’s pricking into my back now. I assume that’s meant as a threat.”

“Right.” John stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

“We were just sitting down to tea.” Mr. Holmes said mildly, detaching from the shadows. “You should join us.”

A tray of biscuits, digestives not biscotti, sat pleasantly on the ornate coffee table along with a steaming pot and two cups that matched the one Amelia had broken. With the tip of his knife, Mr. Holmes gestured Amelia and John onto the sofa, then took a seat in the armchair across from them. Without any sign of concern, Amelia poured two cups and handed one to her son. She blew gently at the steam on her own.

“How is your mother then, Johnny?” Mr. Holmes smiled with too many teeth before taking a long sip. “You gave that poor woman a hard night or two.”

“She’ll be fine.” John picked up a biscuit, breaking it in half and then in quarters. He couldn’t allow himself so much as a glance out the window. Any plan from the rest of the team would be lost if Mr. Holmes suspected even for a moment that he hadn’t come alone. “Though she’ll be put out if I don’t come home tomorrow.”

“Would she?” The shark smile disappeared into something neutral and blank. “How lucky for you. Don’t you think that’s lucky, Mummy?”

“I would imagine that anyone who raised a son like John would be upset that he didn’t come home.” She replied serenely. “He’s a good boy.”

“Yes.” Mr. Holmes tilted his head slightly as if trying to take a new view on John’s personage. “I wasn’t, was I?”

“No. And you’ve grown up to be a horrid man.” She smiled tightly. “Should I have hugged you more?”

“No.” Mr. Holmes finished his tea and set the cup down gently. “I doubt it would have helped. You could’ve been fairer in your affections though. Elsbeth always did get the best of you.”

“Your sister deserved more than I had.” She straightened her already immaculate posture. “Why have you waited so long? You’ve intended to kill me for years. You could’ve done it easily.”

“Never easily.” The knife shone in the dim light as he held it aloft thoughtfully. “I wanted you to know. All of it. I wanted to bring you your grandchildren and let them die at you feet. Watch the last of your genetics wasted. That should be your last memory.”

“Then where are they?” 

“I was rushed.” He sighed, taking a practice swipe through the air. “My boys are very clever, you know. Still, poor Mycroft wasn’t ready to believe the worst in me until it was thrust in his face. You can thank Mr. Watson from sparring you the family carnage.”

“Can I?” Her eyes flickered to John. “How nice.”

“I’ll disappear when I’m done here. India maybe or Thailand.” He reached over to pat Amelia on the knee. She covered his hand with her own. “I couldn’t leave without taking care of you, Mummy.”

“Did I ever tell you about the day you were born?” Amelia sounded almost warm, very nearly tender.

“No, I don’t think so.” Mr. Holmes affected boredom, his eyes even sliding close as she spoke.

“It was a very warm day. I was out in the garden when my water broke.” She smiled slightly. “You were six weeks early. Tiny, blue and helpless. They said you would never make it, but I proved them wrong. I forced you to eat, woke you up every hour for a mouthful of formula. Your father said I kept you alive by sheer force of will.”

“Is there a point to this?” The edge of the knife flickered, and hen drooped. Mr. Holmes frowned down at his free hand, flexing his fingers slowly.

“I should have let you die.” She patted his knife hand gently. “It would have been kinder for everyone. Maybe even you. Still. Never too late to take care of such things, is it?”

“You bitch.” Mr. Holmes stumbled upwards, knife swinging wildly. They slid out from under him, and he had to grab hold of the armchair to stay upright. Sensing his opening, John sprung to his feet and punched him hard in the stomach. Mr. Holmes stabbed wildly at him, but it wasn’t hard to evade.

“You should have a seat.” John shoved him forcefully backward until the man sagged back into armchair. 

“What have you done?” Groaning, Mr. Holmes pointed the knife accusingly at Amelia. “What did you do to me?”

“Not as much as I should have and far, far less than you deserve.” She reached out and took the knife blade first from his limp grasp. Blood oozed through her fingers. “Lie down, dear. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

“No!” He reached for the knife, nerveless fingers only brushing over the handle. “I have to end it!”

“It’s over, son.” She set the knife down on a white doily under a lamp.

Glass shattered in the background and Lestrade came charging in, a tire iron in one hand. He came to an abrupt standstill, taking in the scene. Mr. Holmes crumbled to the floor, twitching and moaning into unconsciousness.

“Diazepam. I take it to sleep occasionally.” Amelia flexed open her bleeding palm. “I dropped half the bottle into the tea. He always did take it with too much sugar. Might have tasted it otherwise.”

“You have no idea.” John tried not to laugh because it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t. “That’s Sherlock’s favorite trick. Is poisoning genetic, do you think?”

As if on cue, Sherlock and Mycroft burst through the front door with makeshift weapons in hand. Sherlock carried some kind of rake and Mycroft had acquired a perturbed looking garden gnome.

“She knocked him out.” Lestrade explained faintly. “Drugs in the tea.”

“You must be my grandsons.” With one elegant step, Amelia left behind her unconscious son to stand in front of the brothers. “I’m so sorry. This is no way to meet.”

“It’s fine.” Mycroft set down the annoyed statuary to hold out his hand. “I’m Mycroft and this is Sherlock. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is most definitely mine.” She clasped his hand and smiled up at him. “It’s very kind of you to come to an old woman’s rescue.”

“You hardly needed it.” Sherlock was gazing at her with something akin to respect. “Have you killed him?”

“I don’t think so.” She glanced back. “John?”

“Oh.” He clamored off the sofa and gingerly took up one of Mr. Holmes’ wrists. “There’s a pulse.”

“Ah.” She turned back. “I would like to talk to both of you very soon, but you must go now. I’ll call the police myself. They know me around here. I’ll tell them that he came home in a rage. They’ll understand that I gave him a few pills to calm him down. I doubt they’ll even take me in for questioning.”

“Considering what he’s wanted for, I wouldn’t bet on that.” Lestrade grimaced. “I’d really prefer if we kept an eye on him. What if he wakes up?”

“We were superfluous to begin with. She had it well in hand.” Sherlock snorted. “Didn’t you Grandmother?”

“Exactly so.” For the first time since John had met her, Amelia smiled full and broad. “Now go on and get out from under my feet. I have things to take care of.”

John was the last one out the damaged front door. When he looked over his shoulder, Amelia was going into the kitchen and fishing around in a drawer. Her digging produced a long loop of telephone wire, and the last he saw, she had retired into the living room, presumably to tie her son up until the police came to take him away. He hid a grin, before jogging to catch up with the rest of the team. 

“I’m dropping the two of you back at your flat.” Mycroft declared as soon as they were settled. “Constable, I’ll require your address so I can return you where you belong.”

“Right.” Lestrade laughed weakly. “Can’t have me out wandering the streets. Shit...Denise. She’ll be worried out of her mind.”

“I doubt it. She’s undoubtedly out pulling.” Sherlock yawned, spreading out across the seat to set his head in John’s lap. “She has little interest in you, only the consistency you represent. And your long work hours which let her continue the multiple affairs she so enjoys.”

“How could you possibly-”

“You think that John and I are somehow brave.” His nose wrinkled up as if the word offended him. It probably did. “It has nothing to do with bravery. It has everything to do with being smart. Why would I give up something that makes my life more enjoyable and easier in order to please the moronic world of public opinion?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft clucked. “Really.”

“Really what?” Sherlock captured John’s hand and set it into his hair in a clear request. “It’s good advice.”

“I think that’s Sherlockian for thank you.” John grinned down at the beloved face and obligingly stroked through wild black curls.

“Is ‘you’re welcome’ generally expressed with a punch to the face?”

“More times than you could imagine.” Sighing, Sherlock turned his face into John’s stomach, and after a few minutes his breathing evened out into something approximating sleep.

“Hey, Mycroft, are you all right?” John asked into the ensuing quiet.

“Fine.” Mycroft turned from the window to face John with a polite smile.

“It’s ok if you’re not, you know.” He kept stroking through Sherlock’s hair. It was vastly soothing. “I mean, it’s a lot to take in.”

“I don’t require sympathy. It may have been sudden, but none of it was truly surprising. There will be some fallout and I’ll have to recalculate some of my long term plans. I imagine my name will give people pause for a long time to come.” He shrugged minutely. “That can’t be helped.”

“Still. Closure and all that, right?” Lestrade tucked a leg up under himself. “Can’t have been fun trying to maneuver around him your whole life.”

“Constable, you have no idea what I consider fun.” Mycroft’s thin smile disappeared entirely. “Whatever else my father was, he was one of only two men I have ever met that I could consider my intellectual equal. The other is my younger, idiotic brother. The world may have become a safer, better place after tonight, but it also become that much smaller and duller.”

“Greg.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you should call me Greg.” Lestrade nudged Mycroft with his elbow. “I’m sorry for whatever it is that you’ve lost. Can’t pretend I really understand what with the not being a genius and everything, but I do know friends help you when you’re grieving.”

“I am certainly not grieving.”

“I told you Sherlock was wrong.” John repeated, then ducked his head so Mycroft couldn’t see his smile. 

“I’m never wrong.” Sherlock grumbled into John’s jumper. 

“I thought he was asleep.” Lestrade laughed.

“Oh, he is.” Mycroft sighed. “He can correct people in his sleep. Drove off half a dozen nannies like that.”

“That’s truly disturbing.”

Talk petered away after that. They pulled up to Lestrade’s building just as the first grey light of dawn shot through the clouds. 

“Greg.” Mycroft said softly, before Lestrade could slip away. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Greg smiled brightly. “If I don’t wind up on the wrong side of the interrogation table in the next few days, we should go out for a pint or something.”

“Has anyone ever mentioned that you might be mad?” Mycroft asked, eyes a little rounded.

“It’s been said, but I think I’m in good company. Good night, John. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Thanks for everything.” John reached out to shake his hand, trying not to dump Sherlock from his lap. “Good night, Greg.”

When he’d disappeared back into his building, John raised an eyebrow at Mycroft who studiously ignored him. The car wove through the waking streets, finally coming to rest outside the flat. John was enormously happy to the see the aging building.

“Come on, disaster.” John pushed at Sherlock. “We’re home.”

With an enormous yawn and an athletic stretch, Sherlock was bounding from the car as if it were on fire. Before John could follow him, he heard Mycroft call him back.

“There’s something that I may have been...not quite correct on.”

“Did that hurt?” John asked in open astonishment.

“A little.” Mycroft sighed. “This war...perhaps we’re all on the same side.”

“Who do you think we’re fighting against then?” 

“Everyone else.” Mycroft smiled grimly. “Good night, soldier.”

“Sir.” John executed a sloppy salute before running to catch Sherlock in a tight embrace, and following him upstairs into the warmth.

 

**About One Year Later**

“Receives sensation from the face and innervates the muscles of mastication.” Harry read out. She was lying on the bed, hanging over the edge. Flashcards lay in a messy puddle on the floor.

“Trigeminal nerve.” John leaned back in the office chair. “Sensory and motor. Located in the superior orbital fissure.”

“Right.” She let the card flutter down to join it’s companions. 

“Name a syndrome that affects it.” Sherlock called out from the kitchenette where he was bent his microscope.

“Oh...Wallenberg! One of the few things that causes a stroke to affect both the right and left side of the face instead of one.” 

“Gross.” Harry grinned at John upside down. “Do brains really work like this?”

“Be a waste to teach us all this stuff as a joke, don’t you think?”

The buzzer rang.

“She’s early.” Harry sighed, rolling up to grab her bag and start stuffing her homework back in. “She must be feeling guilty about something.”

“Be nice.” John picked up a stray book and passed it to her. “We’ll have all Sunday this week, right?”

“Sherlock said we could test the pH levels from all the local water sources.” 

“That sounds like a thrill.” 

“Someone has to be responsible for her education.” Sherlock said dryly. “The state of science education is abysmal. Honestly, John. Cranial nerves? I knew about those before I was in double digits.”

“Be nice.” Harry mimicked John, sending all three of them into peals of laughter. The knock on the door made them all jump. 

“Hello, Mum.” John opened the door. Emma smiled tightly at him.

“Hello, Johnny. How are you?”

“Fine. Thanks.” He stood back to let Harry slip out the door. “Her homework is done.”

“We had stir fry for dinner.” Harry chimed in. “Johnny’s taking an exam on the brain tomorrow.”

“Cranial nerves!” Sherlock corrected from the sink.

“Hello, Sherlock!” Emma called out.

“Mrs. Watson.”

John didn’t budge from the door. They’d reached a polite detente, but John sometimes bitterly suspected it was only for the free childcare. He called his time with Harry ‘the custody agreement’ in his head. Three days a week and every Sunday. 

“Well. Good night, Johnny.” She leaned over the threshold to brush a kiss over his cheek, taking him off guard.

“Good night, Mum.”

He leaned against the closed door for a minute, watching Sherlock move efficiently around his cramped lab space. He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out the gifts he’d assembled only that morning after Sherlock was safely out to class.

“Are you doing anything important?” John slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist, content to rest his head between strong shoulder blades. It was unfair how Sherlock kept getting taller. 

“It can wait.” Glass clicked and then Sherlock was turning in his embrace, leaning down for a kiss. “What is it?” 

“You were wrong.”

“Was I?” Sherlock smiled in anticipation. “About what?”

“Paper. It’s for first anniversaries in the American tradition. It’s second here. First year is meant to be cotton.”

“Oh, that. I knew that.” Sherlock shrugged. “Cotton is dull.”

“Well, I did it properly.” John handed him the first package, flat and unadorned. “Happy anniversary.”

“Is this one of your stories?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock frowned, but opened it and diligently read through the few pages. John didn’t bother backing away, enjoying the slow growing disgust on Sherlock’s face.

“John.”

“Mm?”

“This is awful and even as a metaphor, hopelessly inaccurate.” Sherlock tossed the pile onto the table. “Maudlin, sappy and poor use of allegory.”

“I thought you might say that.” John shook out the fabric he’d kept hidden behind his back before gently lassoing Sherlock’s neck in the soft cloth. “Which is why I also bought you a muffler.”

“This is very...bright.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And plaid.”

“Yes. Well observed.” He smoothed his hands over the soft edges, trailing down the front of Sherlock’s shirt. “Do you like it?”

“It’s hideous.” Sherlock touched the fringe gingerly. “But quite warm. Useful. I approve.”

“Good.” John beamed up at him. “I was a little sad I didn’t get a rose, you know. You’ve spoiled me.”

“I’m hardly going to repeat myself.” Sherlock reached up at an improbable angle and retrieved something from one of their cabinets. He cupped it in his hand. “Promise me you won’t overreact.”

“What did you do?” John narrowed his eyes, prepared to take the appropriate step back to begin a good, loud row.

Sherlock uncurled his fingers around a square of paper. John plucked it up, unfolding it with great care. He scanned the lines once, then again more slowly.

“This....you can’t just...Sherlock.” John let out an unsteady stream of breath. “Why?”

“It was a simple enough thing accomplish and it’s hardly as if I wanted the old one anymore. Too much of the wrong kind of attention.” Sherlock crossed his arms protectively around himself. “Not good?”

“No, this is far more than good. So much more.” With great care, John set aside the paper before pulling his mad, genius lover down to his level. “I hope you never regret it.”

“I don’t do regret.”

“Whatever you say.” John kissed smiling lips with great satisfaction. “Sherlock Watson. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as Holmes. You know if we ever can get married, you’ll have to do the paperwork all over again.”

“I’m not going to marry you.”

“No?”

“You know how I abhor redundancy. There’s something else.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, this is important.” 

“Fine. What then?”

“Cold cases.”

“What about them?”

“Everything. I know what we’re going to do with our lives.” Sherlock’s smile would give sharks a run for their money. “We’re going to start the first cold case unit in London.”

“Have you forgotten the part where I want to be a doctor? Help people? Preferably living ones?”

“Don’t be an idiot. You’d rather be with me than anyone else and that’s where I’ll be. Forensic pathology! Cutting edge field, you could make a real impact.”

“Do I get a say in this?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sighed. “But you’ll eventually agree anyway so why does it matter?”

“I like the illusion of partnership.” John rolled his eyes. “Honestly, how can you go from romantic gestures to stalker level control issues in a matter of seconds?”

“I told you before.” Sherlock nipped at John’s bottom lip and John bit back a groan. “I’m not romantic. Now promise me.”

“I promise, you complete and utter arse.” John pulled him toward the bed. “Now you.”

“I promise.” Sherlock tipped them both back onto the mattress. “Until the sun goes dark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading along so far! There's one more major fic to come that will jump fifteen years forward in the timeline. I may continue to write a few little scenes after that as well. 
> 
> Want to comment but prefer to do so on LJ? [Feed the Author Here ](http://dragons-muse.livejournal.com/65794.html)


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